17. Elizabeth
After weeks of living out of one suitcase and many hotel rooms, I sink into my own couch, in my own place, filled with my own things.
Despite staying in nice hotels, I had begun daydreaming about sleeping in my own bed and romanticizing every little thing about my Upper West Side apartment—including the bathroom faucet that drips unless you turn it just so and the sound of the kid downstairs squeakily practicing violin on Saturday mornings.
When we arrived in Barcelona, David and I were certain the weekend was going to be a veritable nightmare.
But then I overheard a hushed conversation between two Bosch employees while having my morning coffee and knew the gossip was a golden opportunity.
So I dropped an anonymous tip to a journalist who took the bait, reached out to the irate former assistant, and published the story.
I didn’t think the Bosch team principal would face any real consequences.
High-powered men rarely get in real trouble over affairs.
But I also can’t say I’m all that upset my actions resulted in a philanderer getting fired.
But now that I’m home, I‘m quickly realizing I have no idea how to do that. Though I busy myself with sorting the pile of mail I’ve received, throwing out all the expired items in the refrigerator, and unpacking my suitcase, my mind is restless.
It’s a perfect June day, complete with a robin’s egg blue sky and low humidity, so I go for a long run in Central Park, then pick up an indulgent bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel.
As I’m stepping back into my apartment, I pinpoint why feel so on edge.
Usually, I come home when the crisis is handled.
But this time, it’s nowhere near resolved.
In fact, any one of the balls we’ve been juggling could come crashing down at any moment.
I’m decidedly not in control of this crisis yet—and I hate it.
I especially hate that I can’t satisfy the one thing I’m most curious about: Stas Dubinsky.
After learning he’d been in touch with Wes, I called in a favor with a private investigator.
I wanted Stas to know that if he wants me to do something, he should ask me directly—not go through Wes.
The message was delivered, and I’ve wondered how Stas feels about the fact that I can get to him.
Whether his uncle really is the head of a crime syndicate.
What he thinks about his hot night in Macau going public.
If he is in love with Wes, even though Wes isn’t in love with him.
I keep telling myself the situation with Wes and Stas is none of my business and not my job to handle.
And yet, I also can’t separate Wes or Stas from Martine.
There are so many pieces to this puzzle and so many answers I don’t have.
I would never admit it out loud, but I’m concerned that even with all of the contingencies and plans we’ve put together, I still have no idea what’s coming next.
After I’ve showered, changed into comfy loungewear, and settled onto the couch, I flip on the TV and choose a frothy series about women assassins in Victorian London.
I’m in the midst of the third episode when my phone rings.
My whole body reacts and I inhale deeply, prepared to face a new Martine emergency that will have me on yet another international flight.
So when I see that it’s my sister, my heart leaps. It’s been well over a month since we last spoke.
“Jane!”
“Lizzy, please tell me you’re in New York and not some ritzy resort in St. Bart’s.”
I laugh. “I can confirm that I am, in fact, in New York.”
“Oh, thank God. I’m heading to Mom and Dad’s with the kids in a handful of hours.”
“You are?” I ask, shocked. Our parents usually travel from Connecticut to Texas since Todd always points out that it’s so much easier for two adults to travel than it is for parents with kids.
“Yeah!” she says. “Todd is going to a conference and then he’s meeting us in Cape Cod. We’ve rented the cutest place in Hyannis. I’m so excited!”
The surprises just keep on coming.
“It’s all pretty last minute,” Jane continues. “Todd was going to come right back home after the conference, but I thought it’d be nice for the kids to see where I grew up. Plus, I want to shoot some content. So he agreed to the trip! Isn’t that so great of him?”
Last year, I proposed that Jane and I take a trip to Martha’s Vineyard, just the two of us.
It was barely out of my mouth before she said she’d have to bring the kids with her.
She didn’t even consider asking Todd to look after them or dropping them off with our parents.
After I said that would be fine—because what else could I say to that?
—Jane talked to Todd. She messaged a couple days later to say the trip wasn’t a good idea.
So no, I don’t think this is great of him.
But I know better than to say that. “I’m so excited to see you. ”
“It’s been so long!” she says. “Really, the timing is incredibly lucky. And since you’re in the city, that means you can come to the Cape with us!”
A mixture of excitement and dread spreads through my gut. Though I have absolutely no interest in spending time with Todd, I desperately want to see Jane. So I shove my toxic brother-in-law from my mind and focus on the most positive part of this. “That sounds perfect.”
After that, Jane, of course, has to go because my oldest niece has a horseback riding lesson, but she does send me her itinerary.
A week with Jane. Four days with Todd.
God help me.
As I step off the Metro-North train in Greenwich on Thursday, it hits me that I’m not just going to see Jane and her kids, but my parents as well.
I was in middle school when I began to grasp that there was something strange about my dad’s attitude towards women.
He meant it when he called the awards and accolades Jane and I worked hard to receive “participation trophies.” He wasn’t joking when he asked Jane if she was the best girl in science rather than accept she was the top science student.
He never acknowledged my mom’s hard work to cook and clean and make everything perfect all the time.
I didn’t know the word ‘misogyny’ back then. But I knew it when I saw it.
Any time I asked my mom why she never stood up for herself, she’d tell me that Dad was stressed from work, that he shouldn’t be worrying about doing the dishes or taking out the trash, that she was happy and there was nothing amiss.
I used to believe her. Now I know better.
I’m pulling out my phone to book a cab when there’s suddenly a pair of arms wrapped around one of my legs. I’m so startled I nearly scream. But then I look down and see my niece, a cheeky smile on her face. “You smell like a pirate princess.”
I have no idea what that means, especially since my go-to fragrance smells like an autumn afternoon, not a life of thieving at sea. But she seems pleased with this assessment, so I say, “Thank you, Ellie.”
Then I hear a voice that’s as comforting and familiar as a favorite blanket. “Eleanor, I asked you not to run.” And there they all are: Jane, Emma, and Eddie.
There’s a bittersweet pinch in my chest as I’m struck by how much my nieces and nephew have grown.
After giving the kids hugs, I turn to my sister.
Her hair is a cascade of loose waves, her makeup is flawless, and she looks more toned than the last time I saw her.
In her denim shorts, perfectly fitted white tee, and sunglasses perched on her head, she looks more like a nanny than a 36-year-old mother of three. To my dismay, my eyes fill with tears.
“Oh, Lizzy,” she says, tearing up, too. We wrap our arms around each other and hug tightly. I let happiness and relief flood me as I breathe in her sweet gardenia scent. “It’s so good to see you.”
I nod, too choked up to speak. And then because, despite everything, Jane still knows precisely how to cheer me up, she whispers, “Mom and Dad are playing tennis and having dinner at the club. Let’s go get ice cream.”
We have a wonderful time introducing her kids to our favorite ice cream stand, regaling them with stories about our childhood, and enjoying the early summer weather that Emma describes as “chilly,” much to my dismay.
At my parents’ house, I stash my suitcase in what was once my childhood bedroom and is now the most beige guest room in existence before joining Jane on the back deck, where we drink iced peach tea and watch her kids run off their sugar rush.
We talk about the flight, Ellie’s current obsession with The Little Mermaid, and the lucrative brand deal Jane landed with a super preppy clothing company.
“I’m sure they’ll be delighted about the Cape Cod content,” I quip.
Jane laughs lightly. “Honestly, a big part of the reason we’re here is because of that deal. I could have made the content work anywhere, but there’s just something about the summer-on-the-Cape aesthetic that you can’t capture in Texas.”
It’s not hard to read between the lines. “Jane. Did you seek out a deal with the preppiest brand you could find so you could justify this trip as a business expense?”
A small, beatific smile plays at my sister’s lips.
It’s confirmation enough. That’s the sister I grew up with—the one who would always find a way to get exactly what she wanted and never took no for an answer.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen a glimpse of that tenacity that I thought Todd had effectively rid her of the ability to scheme and undermine in the most ladylike of ways.
I’m so proud of her that I want to organize a goddamn parade.
“So,” she says, amusement in her voice as she looks at me and what must be a completely shocked expression on my face. “How are things with you and your F1 crisis?”
The change in subject is so abrupt that it takes me a moment to wrap my head around the question. “Oh, fine.”
“Really?” Jane presses. “An international scandal that has rocked one of the poshest sports in the world is ‘fine’?”
While part of me wants to tell Jane that, for the first time in years, I feel like I don’t know how a job is going to end, I also don’t really want to get into it. Not right now. “It’s just really complicated. I’m tired of thinking about it.”
Jane huffs. “Fine, give me nothing. At least tell me you’ve got some good stories about Wes Grant.”
A montage of the last couple of months flickers through my mind.
The gleam in his eyes when I didn’t recognize him at that first meeting.
The flex of his hands as he expertly steered a sports car around a track at well over 150 miles per hour.
The wicked grin when he admitted the rumors about him and Stas are true.
His tight grip on my waist when he saw a man who very may well be a criminal in a Monaco ballroom.
Then, of course, there are the latest events.
The night where he tried to piss me off so much I’d punish him and the morning after, when an elaborate room service breakfast and a gorgeous bouquet of hydrangeas and English roses were delivered to my hotel room.
I said they must have the wrong room, but the staff member pointed to the card on the silver serving tray.
There’s no excuse for my behavior last night.
I won’t even ask for your forgiveness because I know I don’t deserve it and you would never give it to me anyway.
Still, I hope you accept this apology. I asked the concierge to create a breakfast based on what the hotel staff has observed you like. Bon appetit, Jacobs.
Yours in eternal humiliation,
—WFG
Though I wanted to be put out by the gesture, I was delighted. Flattered, even. I didn’t expect him to apologize at all, let alone to do it with aplomb.
“I definitely have stories about Wes Grant.”
“What’s he like?” Jane asks, her eyes bright. “He seems so…”
Handsome. Amusing. Clever. Thoughtful. “Annoying?”
She gives me a pointed look. “Complicated.”
“You think Wes Grant is complicated?”
Jane nods. “He comes across as some super affable playboy. But he’s also an elite athlete who has remained in a deeply competitive sport for over ten years. He’s disciplined. Savvy. Good at playing the game. Add all that up, and I think he’s probably really complicated.”
I gape at my sister, impressed by how she synthesized all of that and landed on “complicated” rather than “lucky,” as so many keyboard warriors do. “He’s definitely complicated.”
Jane shoots me the same cheeky smile Ellie has adopted. “Also extremely good looking.”
I shrug. “If you’re into the whole charming bad boy thing.”
My sister laughs loud. “As if you aren’t? Lizzy, he is precisely the right mix of all the attributes you’ve always found physically attractive.”
I start to argue, but then catch myself. I don’t want to be a lady who doth protest too much. Especially since she might have a point.
“Wait,” Jane says. “Have you two…are you…”
“No,” I say sharply, though my face immediately heats and my heart begins to race.
My phone rings and David’s name flashes across the screen. It’s well after midnight in London. “Hi, David. It’s late there.”
“Don’t worry, this isn’t a crisis.”
I exhale.
“It is, however, both an emergency and a favor.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, wondering what in the world is going on.
“Wes is a VIP guest at an engineering symposium in Washington, D.C. tomorrow, along with several members of our R&D team. Tate traveled with them to coordinate the press interviews, but she just called to say she is extremely ill.”
My stomach plummets as I understand what this favor is. “You want me to go.”
“I wouldn’t ask it of you if there were anyone else stateside.”
I close my eyes and grit my teeth as a large portion of my Todd-free days with Jane are ripped away from me. But, duty calls.
“I understand,” I say. “Send me the details and I’ll be there.”
I hang up and look at Jane.
“What happened?” she asks.
I sigh. “Wes fucking Grant.”